


Into Raging Torrents

by Fuzzy_Narwhal



Series: An Extended Mission (Anthology) [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzy_Narwhal/pseuds/Fuzzy_Narwhal
Summary: “My poor robes are lucky to have survived your efforts to rip them from my being this past year.”A beat passes before she makes her incredulousness and offence known.“I beg your pardon?”-In the privacy of the Duchess' new bedchambers, Satine considers where to go from here.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze
Series: An Extended Mission (Anthology) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034565
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	Into Raging Torrents

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read this! I'm still learning and trying new things so let me know what you think.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The shuffling, muted footsteps of Mandalorian guards in the hallway permeate through the door and fade across the confines of the Duchess' new quarters.

A bleary, ethereal glow fills the room. Only the most durable and luminescent of Concordia’s moonbeams break through Sundari’s biodome plates and the dulled transparasteel window of her Grace’s bedchambers.

Safe within his arms, skin prickling against the chill of the temperature-controlled room, the sheen of cooling sweat aiding the glide of firm, sure hands as they skate across the plains of her body.

An unexpected sense of domesticity blankets the space, the order and regimented tenets of the Jedi Order cast aside. It should be startling, seeing the meticulousness and fastidious nature drilled into all Jedi so easily supplanted by his devotion to her. Her entire being suffuses with warmth at the thought and the casual intimacy of the room’s contents on display.

His lightsaber, which had been forever held close in the time she had known him, was discarded on the dresser next to her jewellery and regal adornments.

The soft, padded carpet that had welcomed their feet hours earlier now littered with clothes strewn across its surface.

Boots and dress heels fallen over each other, abandoned on the floor, together.

His simple, rough robes slumped in sharp contrast to the surrounding luxury of her silken garments.

The arm of his tunic stretches across the vast expanse toward that evening’s dress, the stiffness of the bodice retaining some of its shape.

She ruminates on the parallels drawn to her own current situation. And yet, before she can fall too far into that line of thought, before she can begin to feel the cold creeping panic she has successfully held at bay since the announcement of their required departure, he nudges her, vying for her attention and she cannot deny him.

He is blinding, incandescent and radiant as his flushed skin accentuates his already handsome features. Gazing at him too long is like staring at the sun. She cannot stand to look at his face, his loving gaze for fear of being sucked down into the raging torrent of her feelings for him. She will drown. He is _Kad Ha'rangir_ incarnate, destroying her defences, laying siege to her heart, to her resolve.

“What are you thinking about?”

She sucks in a breath as she debates which truths to share.

“I don’t think I’ve seen your clothes treated so carelessly before.”

He shifts, to briefly cast a look at the scattered items as she curses herself, her _chaab_ , before cursing this _jetii_ and how he’s affected her. She never would have, has _never_ , hesitated to have serious, _painful_ conversations before.

They resettle, a light smile playing on her delicate features as his heartbeat lulls her toward slumber with its calming timbre. But of course, he does not allow her to bathe in the peaceful silence.

“My poor robes are lucky to have survived your efforts to rip them from my being this past year.”

A beat passes before she makes her incredulousness and offence known.

_“I beg your pardon?”_

“Well, what with dragging me down with your clumsiness –"

“ _YOU_ dropped _ME_!”

“Cutting everything _but_ my hair –“

“One time Ben! And I _said_ I was sorry.”

“Soaking me with _filthy_ swamp water –“

“You were _supposed_ to be keeping watch!”

“Really now I think about it, you’ve always been unnecessarily harsh on my robes. It’s almost as if you’ve been trying to get me out of them since we first met.”

“ _Meh gar urmankala ibac, gar mirsh solus, jetii.”_

He chuckles and kisses the top of her head.

“I’ll have you know; my brain cell rather enjoys its own company and can function more than adequately by itself.”

“Your Mando’a tutor would beg to differ.”

“My tutor is a taskmaster.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmmhmmm. Though I believe I’ve gotten a few words and phrases down to perfection.”

“Oh? Do share.” She can tell immediately by the way his hand stops running up and down the length of her she’s going to regret encouraging him.

“ _Osi’kyr. Gedet’ye. Ni getbi..._ ” A hand clamps over his mouth, silencing his recital. Her face burns and she can feel his amusement at her reaction.

Grasping her hand, he frees himself, and gently kisses her fingertips silently promising a reprieve from his current line of teasing.

Finally, her blush begins to fade as she gets her embarrassment under control. She tuts, feigning indignation at her student. “Is that all you managed to learn?”

He has taken to placing featherlight kisses across her knuckles. “No. Though she is so incredibly, astoundingly beautiful, when she speaks in her native tongue, I must admit to only ever wanting to hear _her_ speak it. I fear my Mando’a could never do her teaching justice.”

If she were not already laying down, she is sure she would swoon under the weight of his adoration. So instead she ducks her head, and draws abstract shapes on his chest as the comfortable silence stretches out, filling the void.

“Would you... Would you speak some now?”

It is unlike him to sound so hesitant, so _soft_ and pleading. She would do anything for him. And so, staring at the ceiling, encased safely in Obi-Wan’s arms, she recalls an old fable her mother used to tell her and Bo at bedtime. As she murmurs a tale of war and strife, hope and peace she reaches for the same cadence and rhythm her mother held.

It is not the same, it will never be uttered in her mother’s way again. And at the end, as the conflict fades and the protagonist gazes upon the cost of their victory, acknowledges the heavy burden of duty that now awaits a new future, one filled with hope, she begins to choke on the profound loneliness and utter despair creeping upon her very soul.

She does not want to be left behind. _Alone_. Again.

Icy tendrils of fear grip around her heart and she feels adrenaline coursing through her veins as she recognises the tell-tale symptoms of a looming panic attack.

Implementing the techniques taught to her by Qui-Gon, she staves off the hysteria that threatened to so utterly consume her. Instead, it settles in her chest and the pride she takes in controlling the once-debilitating condition clouds her judgement just enough for her defences to fall.

“ _Gedet’ye ne ba’slanar ni._ ”

The whispered words hang heavy in the silence of the room and she waits with bated breath for the consequences of what she had just asked, no... _begged_.

An eternity passes and she wonders if he is struggling with the translation or if he is taken aback by her words. Words they’d both silently agreed to never say aloud but a conversation they need to have.

She cannot wait any longer. This uncertainty is like standing on the precipice of a cliff, and she needs to know if she must step away from the edge or if she should allow gravity to pull her into the great chasm below.

She expects to be met with furrowed brow and tortured eyes. The surge of guilt at placing him in this position is overwhelming, it envelopes her and she knows she shouldn’t shy away from his response, no matter what it may entail. Turning her head to meet his eyes she braces herself.

But she is not met with any look she had imagined or anticipated. Instead, she is met with the peaceful image of a sleeping Obi-Wan.

She is still drunk enough on her fear and desires to make another foolish, selfish mistake and reaches to shake him into consciousness so he can hear her plea.

She is pulled from her stupor before she can ruin them both as the dulcet tones of hushed conversation and moving feet filter through her apartment, hearkening the changing of the guard.

She finds herself briefly wondering which _aliik’e_ don their _beskar’gam_ , if she can truly trust them and their _aliit'e_.

Her brow pulls together as she chides herself for her paranoia and mistrust.

For all the tepid acceptance her court has allotted her protectors since her return, her stoic guards did not vehemently object or attempt to prevent her entertaining the young _jetii_ in her chambers. Alone.

It is in this moment she knows she can rely on them, _must_ if she is to survive the rigours of her duty. Though, she is aware she can never fully trust their allegiances, their loyalty to Mandalore first and only if their ties to their _aliit’e_ are so brazenly displayed for all to see.

She and all that touches her must be neutral to corruption, to ancient fealties that have no place in New Mandalore. They are all _Mando’ade_.

As silence descends, her eyes drop back to the sleeping man beside her, to the rise and fall of his chest. She cannot bring herself to disturb his slumber. The moment is gone and she no longer feels the fullness of the adrenaline from her emotions.

She shifts. And as he subconsciously pulls her closer, impossibly closer, the tidal wave of relief and guilt and regret rushes through her, sweeping away her hopes and desires, she allows herself to mourn.

She will never have the strength, the weakness, the _selfishness_ to ask again.

Resignation overcomes her, cloaking her in an exhaustion that sweeps her away from the battle between duty and desire. She knows duty has won, will _always_ win. And, with tears staining her cheeks and heart, she falls asleep in her bed, listening to his heartbeat, in his arms, for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to wrestle with this one quite a bit and I'm still not convinced it's getting everything across that I wanted it to. But it's good practice in any case and an opportunity to hear what works and what doesn't.
> 
> The lack of Mando'a translation is intentional, but if you're desperate, drop me a message.
> 
> Stay Safe!


End file.
